


Can't Lose with the Dress I Use

by robocryptid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Hangover, Hanzo "Sausage Fingers" Shimada, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Making Out, Sharing Clothes, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: It started, as so many bad ideas did, with an argument and too much alcohol. McCree was teasing him again about his more traditional attire, asking if he got cold, asking abouttan lines, and finally, Hanzo suggested that if he was so curious, he should try wearing it himself.McCree took it as a challenge and it… escalated.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 22
Kudos: 417





	Can't Lose with the Dress I Use

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Since I am sometimes asked: you have my blanket permission to podfic, translate or remix my stuff, make fan art, make fanmixes, etc. -- basically anything that qualifies as transformative works! You don't have to ask me. The only thing I do ask is that you share it with me, because I wanna see/hear/read it! 
> 
> What you do not have permission to do is wholesale copy and repost my fic to a different platform, such as a third-party app that profits from free fan labor. If you are reading this on an app like that, I assure you AO3's website on mobile is perfectly robust, allows downloads of fics for offline reading, has a [dark mode skin](https://archiveofourown.org/skins/929), and isn't trying to scam you by offering premium services that change nothing.#
> 
> \--
> 
> mataglap gave me the prompt "role reversal" and told me to interpret it as loosely as I liked. These drunk idiots are the end result.
> 
> This fic also has [DELIGHTFUL fan art](https://twitter.com/Vimeddiee/status/1201626945559113730?s=20) by the wonderful [Vimeddiee](https://twitter.com/vimeddiee). Please shower them with your love and affection.

#

It started, as so many bad ideas did, with an argument and too much alcohol. McCree was teasing him again about his more traditional attire, asking if he got cold, asking about _tan lines_ , and finally, Hanzo suggested that if he was so curious, he should try wearing it himself.

McCree took it as a challenge and it… escalated.

Now Hanzo stood in McCree’s room, holding a pair of McCree’s pants, and not even for the sort of reason he might _want_ to. McCree, of course, was in Hanzo’s room, no doubt pawing at far too many of his things. 

Hanzo spoke, perhaps too loudly, into the comm he’d tossed onto McCree’s bed, which he otherwise dutifully pretended did not exist. “This does not include underwear too, does it?”

A faint wheezing sound rattled through the speaker. “ _No_. Why would you even ask that?”

“I am simply trying to understand the parameters of our arrangement.” He was very proud of how precisely the words came out, in spite of the way the sake coated his tongue and tried to make it clumsy.

“No underwear!” Another wheeze. “I mean, not _my_ underwear. Not _no_ underwear. Christ, Hanzo, keep your underwear on.” His voice seemed to climb higher with every word, ending nearly on a crack when he added, “Please.”

Hanzo snorted. “So modest,” was what he said, but what he felt was gratitude.

It took him a moment to commit, but he finally stepped into the pants. He had considered that he may have imagined how tight they were on McCree, mostly because his brain enjoyed supplying fuel for his torment. This confirmed that his perception had been right all along: they were snug even on him. Fitted as these were, at least they still looked like _pants_ on Hanzo, rather than the paint job they appeared to be when McCree wore them.

He may have been standing on part of the hem. His toes only just peeked out of the ends. Briefly, he considered whether it would be more humiliating to let McCree see him like this, or to roll the ends so he could walk properly. 

Pragmatism won out, but only barely. It took four folds to get them to an appropriate length, and now he was sure to be cursed with the inability to forget how very long McCree’s legs had to be. 

“How the hell do you tie this thing?” McCree’s voice grumbled through the comm as Hanzo revisited the roll-or-flop dilemma with McCree’s chaps. Those were shorter than the pants, at least. Perhaps if left undone, they would hide that he’d had to roll the others. Rather than help him choose, his brain supplied a distinctly unhelpful image of McCree wearing _only_ the chaps. 

“Like a knot.”

“Thank you _so much_.”

“I don’t think I can describe it. I would have to show you.” 

McCree’s shirt fit him well enough. It fit quite nicely, actually. Perhaps even so well as to be mildly distressing. And despite Hanzo’s certainty that he had picked a clean one — unless McCree intentionally folded his dirty clothes — it smelled like him. Like… cologne or deodorant or whatever it was that made McCree smell stupidly wonderful in spite of the lingering whiff of smoke. Which was a problem that Hanzo did not need to dwell on at the moment, especially while wearing McCree’s snug pants.

“Done,” McCree announced. 

Hanzo had not even begun with the body armor, much less any of the accessories. Why were there so many _layers_? And what were these tubes supposed to do? “I’m not.”

A long sigh drifted up from the comm. Hanzo pictured McCree rifling through his drawers, and he willed himself to move faster. “Well, just head my way when you’re done, I guess.”

Hanzo had not, until this very moment, considered the possibility that someone _else_ might see them doing this foolish thing. “You’re coming over here.”

“I look like an idiot, and I’m cold, just like I thought I’d be. No.”

Hanzo had no idea how to wrap the serape, if there was some sort of trick to it or if he just threw it on like a scarf. He did his best. “I am sure we both look like idiots.” He had, in fact, avoided McCree’s mirror based on exactly this suspicion.

“Fine.” McCree might have giggled. “Rock, paper, scissors for it.”

Hanzo paused in buckling his belt. “You can’t even see my hands.”

“Just say it. On three.”

McCree began the countdown. Not one to turn down a challenge — and yes, he knew that was what got him into this mess, but it did not mean he was ready to put the lesson to use — Hanzo may have been too enthusiastic when he shouted, “Scissors!”

Of course, so did McCree. “Damn. Again.” They both chose scissors again, although Hanzo managed to control his volume this time. “Third time’s a charm.”

Hanzo considered what he knew of McCree. McCree would expect Hanzo to adapt here, perhaps gamble on McCree choosing scissors a third time. Or perhaps he knew that Hanzo would think of this and try to outmaneuver by playing rock, and so McCree would choose paper. Or perhaps— oh, fuck it. “Paper,” Hanzo said this time. 

“Damn it. You better be decent. I’m not waitin’ in the hallway.”

The hat fit oddly over his topknot, so he had to take his hair down to make it work. The gun belt — sans gun, because he would not touch McCree’s most prized possession without permission — was easy enough. All he had left was the glove, which took a minor struggle to get into. It flopped at the tips where there was more fabric than he had flesh to fill it. But it fit too tightly otherwise, soft old leather straining around his thick fingers. 

He was curling a fist, trying to get the material to better conform, when the door hissed open and McCree barged through. 

Hanzo burst into wild laughter. There was no more appropriate reaction, although it may have been… excessive. He swayed with it, doubled over, then sat hard on the end of the bed, unable to hold himself up any longer. McCree laughed too, although perhaps not as intensely as Hanzo did.

It took several minutes to recover, to swipe a thumb over the corners of his eyes to catch the tears. He sputtered for a few false starts before he finally cleared his throat and really took McCree in.

McCree was mostly leg, so the hakama were far too short, a fact made more apparent because McCree certainly could not wear the boots to tuck the fabric into. He stood barefoot and shifting his weight. He had, like Hanzo, taken the opportunity to accessorize: he wore the archery brace on the right arm, and he’d even pulled back his hair into a tiny tuft of a ponytail, tied off with one of Hanzo’s silk scarves. 

The top mostly fit, but Hanzo’s eyes tripped over flesh, the big, naked shoulder and thick arm and chest, the glimpse of his side bared nearly to his hip. Pale, thin scars cut through sun darkened skin, and dark hair spread out from the dip between his pecs, thinning just before it reached a brown nipple. 

It had occurred to him while dressing that McCree often wore several layers. It had not occurred to him until now that this meant he’d never seen McCree in any particular state of undress. What a shame, really. Having now experienced it, it was Hanzo’s opinion that _undressed_ was McCree’s ideal state.

Hanzo was probably staring. He cleared his throat, hiding behind his previously amused sputters, and he looked at the obi. McCree had just shoved the sleeve into it, wadded the fabric instead of folding. 

“Surprisingly close,” Hanzo said finally, gesturing at the knot McCree had tied. Which was also a gesture more or less in the direction of McCree’s crotch. Hanzo could feel every ounce of stupid decision-making that had led to this point, and it all blended together to fuel the heat in his face. 

“I pay attention.” There was absolutely no reason for that to make his flush grow hotter. He could only hope McCree took it as an effect of the alcohol; McCree’s own cheeks were red enough from it. “You said you could show me.”

“Oh. Yes.” It was a stupid thing to agree to. Very, very stupid. The glove with its floppy fingertips didn’t help. Hanzo had to pull with his teeth and shove from the bottom with his other hand in order to get the glove off. McCree laughed more than he had any right to, looking as he did. 

Then Hanzo grabbed the obi and tugged, and McCree stopped laughing altogether. Shaking fingers made the first knot difficult to undo, and the way McCree’s hips seemed to sway forward whenever he pulled was _thoroughly_ distracting. 

He kept his eyes intent on the task. He stood too close to risk a glance upward; there was too much skin to see, radiating warmth even from here. The smell that had lingered in McCree’s room and in his clothes was stronger here too, earth and spice and a hint of clean sweat. 

Damp palms and numb fingers made him fumble the first attempt; he had to start again. McCree did not speak, and Hanzo’s shuddery breaths seemed to fill the space between them no matter how strictly he tried to regulate his breathing. Following a dip of his head, the brim of the hat brushed McCree and they both jumped. 

McCree’s stomach hitched when Hanzo’s knuckles brushed against him, then the knot was finished. Carefully, he turned it, placing the knot off to the side where he wore it himself. It required getting his arms around McCree’s waist, a task at which he only succeeded by closing his eyes and internally reciting the Rikimaru menu from memory. He resisted the urge to smooth a hand over the knot, to fuss with the kyudo-gi until the spare sleeve sat neatly folded and tucked behind McCree’s hip. 

McCree let out a strained-sounding laugh as Hanzo backed away. “Always thought you’d look goofy in my hat.” 

“I’m fairly certain I look goofy in all of this.”

“It’s not so bad.” McCree grinned and flicked the brim, which made Hanzo scowl and flinch away. The grin looked a little off, like his heart wasn’t fully in it, like he was distracted by something. Like Hanzo was not receiving his undivided attention.

That wouldn’t do. 

Hanzo tipped the hat and McCree’s smile widened. “Perhaps I will get my own, if you find the look so agreeable.” As soon as it left his mouth, he wanted it back. There was friendly flirting and then there was communicating genuine interest, and he was not sure this didn’t fall in the latter category. 

Not that McCree seemed to mind. If anything, he found it amusing, although he still had that hint of _something_ off behind the eyes. Normally Hanzo rather liked how expressive McCree became when he drank. Most of the time, it made him much easier to read, but this particular look was confusing. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your hair down.” McCree’s hand rose and fell again, slapping against his thigh. 

Hanzo did not know what to say to that, so he pulled the hat off. He could feel the mess his hair presented just then, and he combed fingers through it a few times before he caught himself. McCree stared long enough that Hanzo felt his fingers itch to smooth out tangles again, or pull it back, or grab McCree’s hands and shove them into his hair. 

Suddenly McCree let out a quiet laugh, yanked the hat away and set it firmly back on Hanzo’s head. “That’s enough of that,” he said, which made very little sense, but what followed was perfectly clear. “Night’s still young. You want a beer?”

Hanzo had already drunk enough that he thought he might regret it in the morning, but he said yes anyway. They sat on the floor at the end of the bed, mostly because Hanzo had deemed any more comfortable location too dangerous. Of course, it had not occurred to him that watching McCree drink beer straight from the bottle might give him reason to regret much sooner than tomorrow morning. 

The mouth of the bottle rested against his surprisingly pink bottom lip, which looked so soft and wet that it was unfair, and Hanzo thought he really should call it a night if he felt jealous of a bottle. It took every ounce of discipline within him to tear his eyes away from the bob of McCree’s throat when he drank. He did not have enough discipline to _leave_ though. 

Eventually Hanzo had to address the chestpiece. It had some movement to it, but where it was malleable, it had already been molded to a torso with different proportions than his own. He wrestled out of the serape and armor. 

It left him in the button down. McCree’s eyes raked over him in a way that made his blood run hot. A pity. Taking off the layers had cooled him by several degrees, and McCree had to immediately ruin that effect. 

Hanzo froze as metal fingers brushed his neck, sliding with barely-there touches. McCree’s face moved too close too, his eyes fixated just below Hanzo’s chin. Surely McCree was staring at the heavy pulsing of the vein there, or listening to how ragged Hanzo’s breath had become, collecting evidence of Hanzo’s utter inability to function in close quarters with him. 

Then the fingers smoothed over his collar, and McCree’s gaze rose again. “Sorry,” he said, still too close. “It was stickin’ up. Was gonna drive me nuts.” Hanzo could only nod and wet his dry lips. McCree turned quickly away, putting space between them again. He seemed to search the room before his gaze caught on Hanzo’s— McCree’s— the pants Hanzo currently wore. “You had to roll them!”

“Too long,” Hanzo muttered. 

“Yeah? Yours are pretty comfy, actually.” Something about McCree’s chuckle made Hanzo look at him again, even though he knew it to be a mistake. McCree’s eyes were heavy and sly. “Not really how I imagined getting in your pants, if I’m bein’ honest.”

Hanzo felt his whole body stiffen in surprise. It could have only been a joke. McCree was full of bad ones; it was part of his charm. But it held an edge that said if it _was_ a joke, it was the kind meant to test the waters. “Ridiculous,” he said, half to himself.

McCree only smirked, turned almost fully toward him now. “What about it?”

“Only that it took you so long to make that joke. But why not, ‘this is not how I imagined getting your clothes on my floor’ or ‘when I pictured myself half naked in front of you, this isn’t quite how it went’?”

McCree’s lips twisted, as sly as his eyes. “At least you’re admitting it definitely doesn’t count as _fully clothed_ when you do this. That’s progress.”

Hanzo wanted to laugh again, but the conversation pulled his attention back to all that bare skin. He swallowed, and it did nothing to get rid of the lump in his throat. “Is it really so absurd to you?”

“No.” McCree’s eyes slid over him, over lips and neck and chest, and they just kept slipping downward. Blood pumped just beneath the surface of Hanzo’s skin, like it was reaching for McCree the way the rest of Hanzo wanted to. Suspended by alcohol's time-warping magic, the look felt like it lasted hours. Hours in which Hanzo’s body underwent a number of changes: breaths going quick and shallow, throat drying out, a trickle of sweat rolling between his shoulder blades. Then the gaze trailed back up, and time seemed to speed up again. “It’s… distracting.”

Hanzo didn’t realize he was leaning until he was so close he could no longer see McCree’s whole face, until he swore their breaths were mingling, until the brim of the hat hit McCree on the forehead. He jerked back and McCree swayed forward with an uncomfortable-sounding chuckle.

McCree’s eyes were a fascinating color. A rich brown, of course, but lightened to an amber close to the center, with flecks of gold throughout, although both the lighter shades were quickly being swallowed by rapidly dilating pupils. His lashes were longer than Hanzo had previously realized, a near-translucent blond at the tips, and Hanzo was well and truly fucked if he was waxing poetic about McCree’s eyelashes. 

“I’m…” Not sorry. That would be an admission he’d had some sort of _intent_. “I’m drunk.” The word came out with a little bubble of a laugh. “ _You’re_ drunk.”

“Yeah,” McCree breathed. 

The syllable seemed to shiver in the air between them. The tip of McCree’s tongue slipped out, a quick flash of pink to wet his lips, and it forced a trembling breath out of Hanzo. 

Then McCree ducked his head, tipped Hanzo’s hat back and kissed him. Well before Hanzo’s brain could catch up, his mouth was already responding, molding softly to McCree’s before parting for his tongue. His scalp felt suddenly cool as the hat fell off. His head spun, which he’d like to think was the kiss but which was probably mostly sake and beer. 

The blood singing in his veins, pounding in his ears, rising hot in his cheeks — all of that was probably the kiss, though. 

He couldn’t know for sure how he ended up tipped back and balanced on one elbow, but the hand gripping the back of McCree’s neck suggested it was partly his own doing. McCree broke off, breathing hard between them, and he teetered for a second above Hanzo. “Drunk,” McCree muttered again. 

Hanzo felt his fingers go lifeless, no longer dragging McCree closer but unsure where they should go now. “Right. Is this— Have you considered this sober?”

McCree laughed, and really his mouth was so _stupid_ and pretty and would look nice wrapped around— “You think I’d do something this dumb for just anybody?” He reared back enough that Hanzo could see him plucking at the kyudo-gi he still wore. 

“No,” Hanzo lied. “I wouldn’t either.” That at least was true. 

“Good to know.” 

“I will try very hard to pretend this didn’t happen, if you wish.” 

McCree looked startled. “No! No, I just. Maybe we should, uh. Wait.”

“Well, you have already kissed me. And you can’t _un_ kiss me. I don’t see a difference between one drunk kiss and several, under the circumstances.” McCree snorted at that. “So if you really have considered this…”

McCree seemed to have made up his mind, because he murmured, “So many times, you have no idea,” as he ducked his head again. Or it might have been that, but his mumbling it directly against Hanzo’s lips made it difficult to tell. They kissed, grasping with hands and mouths alike, until Hanzo’s back began to ache. Until he realized that they were at the bed already, and it would be absurd not to use it.

Migrating to the bed was a fumbling affair, made more difficult by McCree growing seven more hands as a result of their kissing. They touched everywhere at once — or nearly so, anyway. It seemed that McCree really and truly planned to leave it at kissing, so some places were off limits. Which Hanzo could respect, but that didn’t make it any less a unique form of torture.

Maybe, Hanzo considered, he could keep kissing McCree until they were both sober enough to revisit that conversation. Torture or not, it was a worthy goal.

* * *

They never made it that far.

Hanzo woke in the morning with the deeply unfortunate combination of a headache, a touch of nausea, and an erection pressing urgently against something in that especially inviting space between too-firm and too-soft. Blearily he wondered if the headache would be better or worse without the hard-on redirecting blood flow; he was no medical expert. 

Only then did he realize he had it pressed against McCree’s thigh. And that he lay in McCree’s bed. Wearing McCree’s shirt, but not, it seemed, McCree’s pants. Those must have disappeared sometime in the night, leaving Hanzo in only the underwear that McCree had insisted he keep on. 

Well. Hanzo was not convinced he had continued to insist on it, once the whole “making out like teenagers” bit really caught on, but he had insisted on it at some point, and Hanzo’s memories of the rest were hazy at best. At least he remembered it, though.

McCree looked similarly ridiculous. Hanzo had thought he was shirtless at first, before he realized that he’d merely shoved _both_ sleeves off. The fabric bunched around his waist, trapped by the belt. Hanzo lay in bed with McCree half naked before him, a fantasy he’d tormented himself with for weeks now, and he could do nothing but stare. Maybe glare a bit, since fully opening his eyes was a painful prospect. McCree’s hair was askew, his beard in desperate need of a comb and maybe a trim, he smelled like a dive bar, and Hanzo found him unbearably attractive.

He was busy staring at the massive red blotch on McCree’s neck and wondering if his own mouth was truly that big when McCree shifted and groaned, threw an arm over his eyes, and grumbled, “I want to die.”

Laughing made his head throb painfully, as did the wriggle he performed to try to get his boner away from McCree’s thigh. If McCree noticed it, he said nothing. Not that Hanzo should be ashamed by it, probably, if what he could remember of last night’s activities gave him anything to go by, but it wasn’t as though he could act on it at the moment. He might die if he tried. Or get sick, which might be worse, or at least more humiliating.

“I have… so many regrets,” Hanzo said. His voice sounded like rocks grinding together. McCree’s body stiffened beside him, and only then did Hanzo realize what it must have sounded like. He forced himself to move, to actually look at McCree’s face and ensure McCree looked back. “Not everything.” Somehow smiling also made his head hurt worse; it probably turned instantly into a wince. “The alcohol, mostly. There were other things I would not mind repeating.”

McCree squinted up at him, and the grimace on his face might have been his own pained attempt at a smile. “Same.” He shut his eyes again with a groan. “Sweet as this is, I need to postpone this conversation until my head doesn’t feel like it’s gonna explode.”

Hanzo snorted, then flinched, then laughed quietly at it, which only made him flinch again. “Ah. Same.” He then flopped back onto the bed, turned facedown, and attempted to block out all the light in the room by burying his face in McCree’s pillow.

They agreed to revisit the issue, but first they had to nap, take a shower, swallow half a fistful of headache medicine each, and then nap again. That they did all these things together seemed to bode well for the rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is definitely a line from ZZ Top's "Sharp Dressed Man," because I will not be stopped.
> 
> This fic also has [DELIGHTFUL fan art](https://twitter.com/Vimeddiee/status/1201626945559113730?s=20) by the wonderful [Vimeddiee](https://twitter.com/vimeddiee). Please shower them with your love and affection.
> 
> Come shout at me on Twitter [@robocryptid](https://twitter.com/robocryptid) or [on Pillowfort](https://pillowfort.social/robocryptid).


End file.
